


WNYZ (In Abel, Nowhere Near Cincinnati)

by electricchicken



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: M/M, Non-Chronological, Normalverse, goats in flower crowns, it happens a lot down south
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricchicken/pseuds/electricchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes professionalism is overrated.</p><p>A radio station AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	WNYZ (In Abel, Nowhere Near Cincinnati)

**i.**

Jack narrows his eyes, raises the bat in both hands, and readies to charge.

At the opposite end of the narrow wooden plank, set over the kiddie swimming pool filled with what looks like green Jello, Phil does the same. Well, the same with slightly more wobbling. And he seems to be favouring a one-handed grip on his weapon that could put him at a serious disadvantage in the war ahead.

There's a sharp blast of a whistle, and the two gladiators charge into battle.

Er. Make that waddle. Waddle into battle.

The inflatable sumo suits do take the edge off the suspense some. And that's without getting into the vague feeling of discomfort that comes with every glance at Jack's red, already slightly sweaty face topped by the most stereotypical faux-Asian haircut ever made out of lightweight plastic and hot air. Do sumo wrestlers even wear their hair like that in modern Japan? He'll have to check Rofflepedia. 

On the battlefield, Phil takes a wild swing with his foam -tipped, double-ended mace. Jack blocks it and makes some sort of rude gesture. 

"Remind me again," Zoe mutters, straw from her iced coffee still held between her teeth like an old time farmer might hold a stalk of wheat, "what charity this benefits?"

Eugene pretends to hear someone calling him on the other side of park.

 

**ii.**

There are a lot of places this story could start.

Like three weeks ago, when Jack stalked into the studio with a thick black binder and–

No, not quite far enough.

Or it could start back in Canada, when the reporter for Global BC finally tore his eyes away from Eugene's leg to say—

No, definitely too far. And wandering from the topic at hand, slightly.

So maybe this story actually starts in late October of last year, with Esteban Sosa gracefully rolling up and out of his leather chair in Radio WNYZ's boardroom and coming around the side of the conference table to clap Eugene's hand in a warm, dry handshake with just the textbook amount of pressure.

"Very good, Mr. Woods, very good indeed." Up close Mr. Sosa (he has at no point suggested Eugene call him by his first name) has teeth like a row of chiclets and soulful brown eyes. His deep blue button-down shirt, while exquisitely tailored, nonetheless hangs in such a way as to suggest it is only barely containing the muscular frame underneath. Eugene feels an interesting mix of fearful and intimidated and turned on that ends up presenting as a sort of vague nausea.

"You have a very impressive resume," Mr. Sosa says, voice not breaking through Eugene's fog of queasiness so much as slipping in alongside it, riding it like a pool float on a turbulent sea. "But of course, paper and demo tapes cannot tell the whole story. It is also about having the right fit." 

"Fit," he nods back, tries to keep the smile on his face easy and natural as he's led out of the room and down the hall and around a corner. "I agree."

"Like cogs in a machine," Mr. Sosa says. Or something like that. Eugene's been in radio long enough to learn how to filter out most of the owner-speak that comes his way. In the end, most of it boils down to 'fuck up less, make more money,' anyway. What jargon they use to get there isn't so much the point.

He doesn't know why he's so nervous. Fraternal Alliance Broadcast Network (which he is not, under pain of death, to refer to as "the FAB Network," no matter how much he wants to, according to the youngish Chinese guy with the nice smile and nervous eyes who'd shown him into the conference room this morning) hasn't exactly been subtle about wanting to pull him away from his morning gig at SkoobsFM. And if Mr. Sosa, company president and founder and CEO, is conducting this job interview himself then Eugene's contract is almost certainly already filled out and sitting in his ridiculously expensive briefcase, just waiting to be signed.

Meeting his new co-host is a formality.

Now if only he could tell that to the cold sweat that's broken out at the back of his neck.

From somewhere, he can hear music. And... yodelling?

Mr. Sosa sighs, and opens a door to one of the studios, spilling drumbeats and guitar riffs and wailing voices into the hallway. 

" _It's in your he-ad, in your he-ea-ead—_ "

"Mr. Holden?" Mr. Sosa says, and then again, slightly louder, "Mr. Holden, we are ready for you."

The music dies so quick it's like a switch has been thrown. Which is probably what's happened, now that he thinks about it. And then a shortish, slightly stocky guy is barrelling past Mr. Sosa, gripping Eugene's hand tight in his own and grinning at him like he's the most brilliant thing. "Eugene, oh man, so glad you could come down."

Jack Holden's hair is that almost dayglo carroty orange that his mom's friends dropped thousands trying to recreate at hair salons back in the '90s, and despite its inner radiance still not as bright as the pink chucks on his feet. His jeans appear to be too tight to wear based on the current understanding of physics. Eugene's heart does a box step.

"So you're a Cranberries fan," he says, and tries not to analyze the way Jack's fingers are lingering on his.

 "I like to limber up the vocal cords before the show," Jack says with a nod, finally releasing his hand. "Ready for our test run?"

 Just like that, he is.

 

**iii.**

In very short order, Eugene learns a few things about Jack Holden. 

One: The guy has absolutely fantastic music taste, right up until the moment he doesn't.

"I appreciate the attempt at Canadian content, but seriously? Avril Lav—"

"Listeners, I'm sorry to do this, but I do believe Gene's lost his microphone privileges until he agrees to stop impugning this station's favourite emissary of Canadian culture. From now on it's just you and me, broadcasting solo and — hey, no hitting!"

Two: Despite spending what seems like every evening (and sometimes nights and early mornings too, from the stories Eugene's heard) at some combination of dive bars, raves, pubs, clubs, underground house parties and concerts, there doesn't seem to be a single television show on the planet Jack hasn't seen.

Three: Related, he can name every single pokemon. All of them. Though Eugene still refuses to believe that "Spoink" is anything other than an elaborate troll.

Four: There is no one on the planet Jack dislikes more than Phil, who co-hosts the station's unfortunately named morning show Radio New Tomorrow with Zoe Crick.

Zoe, for her part, is blonde and aggressively bespectacled and heavily tattooed and has been Eugene's permanent date for lunch since they bumped into each other at the water cooler and discovered a mutual love for Joy Division. (Well, 'discovered' makes it sound like they put work into it. He was wearing a t-shirt with the album art from Unknown Pleasures on the front and she had a lyric from Transmission inscribed on her arm, in a banner under a 1950s-style microphone.)

Phil is. 

Well.

Uh.

Phil is... interesting.

If by interesting, one means 'inclined to glaring balefully in Jack's direction whenever they are in the same room.' Or, 'weirdly invested in over-pronouncing words with more than two syllables.' Eugene's amazed no one in station management's yet forbidden him from ever uttering the word citizens (or rather, 'cit-i-zennnnns') ever again.

He'd tried asking, right at the start, where the hostility came from. But Jack had just muttered something under his breath about feng shui and fat heads that had eventually developed into snarling, and Zoe had rolled her eyes and refused to speak about the matter at all, no matter how many coffees Eugene bribed her with.

He would ask Phil, but the two of them haven't exactly spoken, as such. Unless he's counting the company Christmas party.

Eugene emphatically does not count the company Christmas party.

 

**iv.**

While not entirely benign, Jack's hatred of Phil is generally harmless, even a little routine.

About once every three weeks or so, Eugene will show up at the studio to find Jack hunched over a phone directory or chuckling at a web page, and the next morning 16 pizzas or a male stripper dressed as a sexy plumber ("sexy" and, now that he thinks about it, better put the scare quotes around "plumber" too) or a goat wearing a flower crown will show up at the studio, just in time for the morning rush.

In between special deliveries, Jack likes to leave news items and important alerts on the morning desk that take certain creative liberties with reality. From what Eugene understands, the local SPCA has still not forgiven Phil for informing the station's considerable listener base that for every kitten adopted the society sends a similar animal to Africa.

And in between those in-betweens, there are smaller skirmishes in both morning show and drive time territory. The usual barrage of coffee creamer switched with powdered dietary fibre, shoe polish on headsets, play lists hacked to include back-to-back-to-back-to-back Nickleback anthems and snakes in the sound booth.

(Well, just the one snake, but Eugene and Zoe had vetoed any escalation of that particular prank war at a special break room peace summit presided over by Sam Yao, the station's daytime host and only officially neutral party. While neither he nor Zoe officially condone the Great Morning-Drive Prank War, Eugene is aware that snickering counts as support. And he's sure Zoe engineered morning's greatest coup to date, which involved getting Jack a guest hosting spot on the station's late night program while the usual anchors went on some sort of pilgrimage.

Copies of the resulting tape have been sent to various parties on both sides of the war, as well as uploaded to the station website, to be preserved for posterity. And Eugene has made a mental note never to mention any of it to his co-host unless he's up for several hours of twitching, sputtering and flailing afterwards.)

If pressed, Eugene would describe the whole war as mainly amusing. Just a bit of good, sometimes clean fun between songs and traffic and the half-hourly weather report.

Which is why he's not concerned the day Jack shows up for show prep with a thick black binder under one arm and one of those cat-caught-the-canary smiles.

"D'you reckon he could pull off a genius, billionaire playboy philanthropist?" he asks, and drops the binder on the desk, flipping it open and and spinning it round for Eugene to see.

On the page in front of him is a head shot, black and white, for the most blandly handsome man he's ever seen. The guy's got a jaw like marble, and what might be the most symmetrical nose of all time. He's hottest person Eugene has ever forgotten immediately upon looking away from a picture. It's a strange effect.

"On a scale from coffee creamer to 'the Tesco is closed indefinitely due to a ghostly apparition wailing near the beer case,'" Eugene says, "how much do I not want to know what you're up to?"

Jack thinks about it a moment. "Goat-in-a-crown, maybe?"

"He seems like a good choice," he flips the picture over, looking at the brief resume on the back of the shot. Some theatre credits up north, a bass voice, able to play between 30 and 45 apparently — which Eugene thinks is pushing it a bit, down there at the low end. "What kind of a name is Lem?"

"Maybe it's short for something," Jack suggests, tugging the binder back. "Lemlet, Leminsky, Lemmington?"

"It's probably Lemmington," Eugene agrees, cutting him off. He's seen what happens when Jack tries to guess names.

 

 **v.**  

Sam shows up five minutes into Phil and Jack's epic battle — which so far has mainly consisted of both competitors inching back and forth on their balance beam and a couple of unimpressive blocks. He's clutching a litre bottle of Lucozade that is at least a third full of vodka and Eugene can see the first fuzzy beginnings on his upper lip of what Sam has taken to referring to as his "weekend mustache."

Eugene drains the last dregs of his coffee, cold now and not intentionally like Zoe's, from his station coffee mug and holds it out. "You're sharing that, right?"

"Sorry man," Sam hugs the bottle to his chest like a baby, eyeing him. "You're on the job. I'm just here because I heard there might be pizza later. Besides, I brought you guys fizzy water."

Eugene tries to keep his own face neutral, but Zoe's glare is the stuff of nightmarish legend.

On the balance beam, Jack advances three steps, pushing Phil towards the end of the plank. Zoe sighs.

"Are we placing bets on this?" Sam asks.

"We tried," he fishes his phone out and glances at it. Still another 10 minutes until he and Zoe have to fight about who's doing their next live hit, thank God. "Everyone wanted to bet on Jack. Even him." 

Sam follows Eugene's pointing finger to where the most forgettably attractive man in the world is lounging around next to the helium tank in the children's tent, signing autographs for a swarm of kids and parents. Awkward. At least most of them have taken advantage of the free face-painting as well, so when they look back on this day in later years it won't seem like a total loss.

"I'm willing to take those odds," Sam says, between big swigs of Vodkazade. "How much?"

"Twenty," Zoe suggests.

"Deal. Eugene, you in?"

On the balance beam, Phil bats at Jack with his weapon and nearly goes straight into the pool, only saving himself at the last second with a great windmilling of arms. 

"Oh, am I."

 

**vi.**

Eugene doesn't ask the obvious question right away. 

Instead, he waits until he and Jack have a month together under their belts, until the air between them crackles whenever they're live, and they've spent enough hours crammed together in a soundproof booth that he feels like he knows his co-host as well as he knows his own family, knows himself.

That they are three pints deep at Dogville, current end-of-the-work-week pub of choice for most of the WNYZ staff when he does bring it up doesn't hurt either.

"Why not Sam?"

"Hm?" Jack's dividing his attention between his pint, half empty, and his phone, vibrating. "If it were you, would you go to the gallery opening tonight, which will have free wine but a distinct lack of eye candy, or to punk rock karaoke with a friend who promises, and I quote, 'to hook you up with a hot piece of as'?" 

"As?"

Jack shrugs. "I keep telling Simon he's no good at typing once he's got even half a vodka tonic in him, but he swears he doesn't need autocorrect turned on." 

"Pre-game at the gallery, meet your hot as at karaoke after?" Eugene suggests, and it's amazing how used he's gotten to the little twist of jealousy in his gut. Ignore anything long enough and eventually it becomes routine. "You'll never catch up to Simon if you have to pay for your drinks."

Eugene has only met Simon — who is, ostensibly, Jack's roommate, though it's not clear that he ever sleeps in their flat — exactly once. Yet he feels very confident in this prediction.

"Sold," Jack says, thumbs flying across the screen of his mobile. "Now, what about Sam?"

Some day, Jack's ability to file away every thread of conversation even when he's not paying attention will stop being jarring. Yes. Some day.

"How come you're not with him?" Eugene winces and waves a hand, trying to scrub the thought back out of the air like words off a chalkboard. "Wow, not what I meant. On the show — why didn't you make him the new co-host? He seems like he'd be good at it, and he must be due to graduate off day shift."

It takes Jack another good thirty seconds and a poke in the arm to stop snickering.

Then he pulls up a 45 minute voice memo on his phone, fishes a pair of earbuds from one of the interminable pockets in his khaki shorts and hands both over without comment. 

_"No one at the station is able to take your call just now, but leave a message and—"_

_"...calling to complain about this new girl you've got on during the daytime program..."_  

_"—bit rubbish, isn't she?"_

_"Where has Sam gone? Is he hurt? Sick? You let him know we're all rooting for him to get better soon."_  

_".He was always so cheerful and so dedicated — I don't think this new girl cares about your listeners, frankly—"_

_"And our office will be filing a complaint with management right quick, let me tell you..."_  

"This one is just sobbing," Eugene says, frowning at Jack.

"Oh yeah, that goes on for about a minute and a half," Jack says. "Scroll ahead if you like."

_"I'm just phoning back to say we've started up a collection for Sam's medical bills, in case it is an illness. We should be up to £300 by week's end. If you could ring back and let us know where to send it..."_

_"—turn on the radio and feel like there's something missing."_

_"BRING BACK SAM. BRING HIM BACK NOW, YOU HEAR?"_

_"And you can tell that new girl to—"_

Eugene jerks the headphones out. "And this goes on for three quarters of an hour?"

"Longer," Jack gives him a wry smile. "We deleted all the really abusive ones straight away."

Eugene stares. "And you couldn't just tell people he'd moved slots?"

"We tried," Jack's eyes go wide, staring through him at some remembered horror. "You should've seen the comment thread on the Facebook announcement we made about it. We're not even going to talk about Twitter."

"What happened on—"

"Ssh," Jack reaches across the table, finger hovering just in front of Eugene's lips. "Poor Nadia stuck it out most of a week, but no one blamed her for quitting. It's a real shame, she seemed pretty nice, and she was proper funny when she wasn't having her spirit crushed by crazed office workers scared of change."

"So Sam's back to day shift," Eugene says, shoving the phone away.

"On the plus side," Jack says, "it wasn't like anyone could refuse him a raise, after all that. And I hear FAB found Nadia a posting over in New Canton. Traffic reporting, I think. So it all worked out. Kind of. In a frightening way.

"And besides," he adds, and the lighting in Dogville must be playing tricks because Eugene almost swears he can see Jack go red in the cheeks, "Got you out of it, didn't I? I'm not complaining."

 

 **vii**. 

"...listeners, we're sorry you had to hear that."

"We are indeed. I don't think I've heard anything so — so —"

"Inappropriate? Unprofessional? Mean-spirited?"

"I was going to say poorly dubbed, to be honest."

"That's your biggest complaint? Shoddy production values?"

"Thinly veiled displays of homophobia aside — if I were going to make a fake promotional clip disparaging someone at this station I'd look beyond the first stock music option in iMovie. Seriously, has no one in this place got standards any more?"

"Well listeners, while Jack here despairs over the state of modern radio, how about a song?"

_"You're listening to WNYZ After Work with Jack and Eugene — two poofs in a sound proof booth."_

"Oh God. Please tell me Phil didn't cue that up—"

"Another five times in a row. Sorry, listeners, looks like there might be some technical difficulties over here. Uh, Gene, why don't we go to community news?"

 

**viii.**

It's the second week of June and Victoria is fogged over and grey and rainy. Eugene has three finals to study for and an essay for AP English that needs writing and a very confusing set of feelings involving his bio-chem lab partner to either decode or ignore, as the mood strikes him. A three hour nap would be nice, too (staying up late to play Diablo II and ignore his aforementioned bio-chem-related feelings might not have been the wisest course of action). 

So to say he's not really feeling this interview he's agreed to for "a feature package the weekend edition" — which everyone keeps saying even though it is essentially a meaningless nonsense phrase — is an understatement. 

But it might help some if the reporter would stop staring at his leg for the five freaking seconds it would take to look Eugene in the face.

"My eyes are up here."

"Huh?" The reporter is better dressed than most of the sports guys he's had to talk to since the scout for the Canadian national team started showing up to his meets and the media in Greater Victoria decided track and field was thing they cared about after all. His tie is smooth and unrumpled, the purple adding a pop of colour against his slightly shiny grey dress shirt. Even if he couldn't see the camera man setting up near the edge of the track, Eugene would know he was from one of the TV stations based on that tie alone.

"Nothing," a drop of water hits the bridge of his nose and rolls downwards. Eugene sighs. If it starts to pour, he's leaving, weekend package be damned. "Can we start?"

"Just give us a second to check the levels," the reporter says, like that means something.

The rain is not quite a full-on drizzle, but is more than a sprinkling by the time he's miked up and ready to go. They make it through the basics okay: name, age, dates for training camp, how many going, real honour to be invited, etc, etc.

"So how did you get interested in running?"

Eugene hopes his stare and accompanying silence are sufficiently withering. "I don't run."

The reporter's face gets sort of stuck, then, mouth half open, eyebrows scrunched together. "Uh?"

"I do high jump."

"Oh," another awkward silence. "I didn't know they did that in the Paralympics."

"Yeah."

"Do you do it with," the guy hesitates a beat and Eugene is rolling his eyes before he's even asked the question, "the leg on or—"

"Someone actually pays you to say this shit?"

There's that face again. And, fuck. He said that out loud, didn't he?

He's expecting a lot of things to happen next, some of which involve him getting grounded for life the second his parents hear about this. None of them are the rueful and yet somehow slightly cheeky smile the reporter shoots him. "You're really going to love it when I ask you how it feels to be such an inspiration to the community, aren't you?"

Eugene doesn't mean to, but sometimes a guy's just got to laugh.

Two weeks after the interview he'll come to the conclusion that making out with his lab partner is as good a way of sorting through feelings as any. The national track team is nice enough, but doesn't ask him back after camp ends, which is fine too. Anyway, it means he doesn't feel quite so guilty when he discovers the joys of beer and extremely cheap cigarettes later that same summer.

When school starts again in the fall, he signs up to help with the school paper.

Someone's got to do it better.

 

 **ix.**  

"Cit-i-zens, have I got some exciting news for you today," Phil's voice blares out the speakers of Jack's ancient, taped-together stereo system and Eugene winces and holds out his empty coffee mug for a refill. Years and years of getting up before the sun to do his own morning show, and after less than a year of evenings anything before 9 a.m. is too much to bear. Early mornings don't come naturally, it seems. 

Jack makes a face at him, but turns the volume dial down a whole half a millimeter, and snags the coffee pot out of the machine, pouring them both a final round of cooling, slightly sludgy drink. "Come on, this is going to be great." 

"If you're so excited about this, how come I'm the one who had to get dressed and come over here at 5 a.m.?" he grumbles, casting a look at Jack's faded Keisha St. Cloud tee and flannel pyjama bottoms. His feet are bare and his hair is a mess, and he'd still had a pillow crease on his face when he'd answered Eugene's knock on the door a half hour earlier. Thank God he's tired enough that the sight is more irritating than — than other, dicier emotions.

"'Cause you agreed to," Jack points out. Which, huh. Point there. "Now shush, I want to hear this bit."

"—most of you know, Zoe's at the Great Escape today and all this weekend with the winners of our Great Escape contest—"

"Cleverly named as always," Eugene says, raising his coffee to the radio in salute.

"But we've got a special guest sitting in with us today, here to tell us all about an exciting new partnership with us here at WNYZ."

Jack starts giggling and Eugene kicks at his ankle under the table. "Calm down." 

"Sorry, sorry, just—" he bites at the inside of his cheek and looks away, and the laugh he's trying to suppress comes out as a squeak, "Zoe is going to lose it when she gets back."

"Stop gloating."

"Hey, you'd gloat too if you—"

"—here with the founder of Lem's House, a fantastic charity we're going to tell you all about. Uh, oh, yeah. Go on and say hello, Lem."

"Hello out there everyone."

Eugene nearly spits his swallow of coffee back into the mug. "What is that accent?"

"Amazing," Jack says, thumping him on the back before he can start to choke. "It is an amazing accent."

"Now," Phil says, clapping his hands together hard enough that it reverberates through the mic. "Why don't we start out by talking a bit about — that is — what is—"

"Lem's House," Lem says, and Eugene hides his face in his hands and tries to suppress a snort, "is a home for children whose parents have been eaten."

There is a pause.

"Um," Phil says.

"Eaten," Lem repeats, about as deadly serious as anyone speaking in — in — whatever that accent is can manage. It's like bad English Elvis meets Johnny Bravo only worse, somehow. This time it's Eugene's turn to make one of those squeaking sounds. Jack pats him on the head.

"Is that... that's a thing?"

"Happens all the time down south," Lem says, and Eugene's not sure whether he or Jack breaks first, but by the time they've recovered the station's moved on to a commercial break and Jack's cheeks are streaked with tears of laughter.

 

 **x.**  

By the time Jack finally gets his footing sorted and whacks Phil right in the chest with his bat, the ante of the bet has been upped considerably, and Sam has texted intern Five to bring him another Vodkazade. When Phil wobbles, left foot joining his arms in their windmilling, and Jack takes the opportunity to give him a good shove off the balance beam with the end of the bat, his victory is met with only minimal applause.

"Oh, come on, that's it?" his face is bright red now and what little hair is visible with the sumo suit on is plastered against his forehead. "Don't I get a little more appreciation?"

"You're going best out of three," Zoe calls. There are lawn chairs in the station's broadcast tent, but they've opted for sitting cross legged in the grass. Eugene had never expected to say this, but he's starting to be grateful for Sam's water delivery after all. It's scorching out. For England, he means.

"I'm — what? No, come on. I beat him," Jack does his best to flop down next to them, but the suit bounces off the ground and he ends up sprawled on his back, legs briefly kicking the air like an upside-down tortoise. "Gene, little help here?"

"No pressure," he grabs at one of Jack's arms and tugs, succeeding only in rolling him onto his side, "but everyone but Sam has money riding on you, so if you don't win expect to be shunned for the rest of your life."

"Gee, thanks," one of Jack's trainers hits the ground and he digs in and hauls himself up with a grunt, practically climbing Eugene as he does it. "Make a bloke feel real valued."

"Go forth, mighty warrior," Eugene intones, giving him an encouraging and likely unnoticed swat on the sumo suit's inflated rear end for encouragement. "Bring us great honour."

The look Jack gives him is at least one part incredulous and one part admiring, but the other emotion in the mix is debatable. "When this is over, you are so buying me a drink."

 

**xi.**

By the time they make it to the studio after breakfast and a quick nap, a flaw in Jack's hilarious plan to humiliate Phil has become apparent. Turns out, no one bothers to Google what they hear on the radio.

WNYZ's answering machines are clogged with dozens and dozens of calls from listeners eager to help the poor orphaned little lambs of Lem's house in whatever way they can — and isn't it just terrible, so many of the messages add, to think of so many people getting eaten in their homes right in this very country?

"I despair for England," Jack sighs, after about the thirteenth message.

Eugene holds off a little longer, right up until they get to a message from one Ian Golightly of The New Times, asking if they wouldn't mind putting him in touch with Lem and someone from station management about their new charitable partnership for an article.

"You think this one might have backfired?"

Jack doesn't answer. He's too busy staring at his phone, now buzzing as it chimes out the first few bars of the Rolling Stones' classic Sympathy for the Devil.

"Is that—?" Eugene starts.

The way the blood drains from Jack's face confirms it. "Esteban."

 

 **xii.**  

Five shows up in gym clothes, carrying a backpack filled to bulging with vodka and energy drink, but also prawn cocktail crisps, a staggering amount of pick and mix, and one of those cake and ice cream rolls, now slightly melted.

"Did you run all the way here?" Zoe asks, sounding more disapproving than anything.

Five nods, shrugs, and hands off everything but the pick and mix to Sam, who falls on the ice cream roll like a ravenous animal.

"Thanks Five," Sam's cheeks bulge with cake, and his words come out indistinct and muffled. "You're the best."

Five shrugs again, sort of bashfully this time, and settles in next to him, sitting a little too close to be friendly but not exactly close enough to be more than friendly either. Eugene is never going to understand their relationship. Hell, he still can't figure out why Sam insists on calling their summer intern Five in the first place. It all seems very complicated.

"Are any of you even paying attention to this?" Jack shouts, dodging backwards as Phil — who seems newly invigorated by Sam's financial support — takes a wild run at him. Well, more of a shuffle, but it's the thought behind it that counts.

"No," Zoe shouts back, and snags a handfull of licorice bits out of Five's bag.

Eugene reminds himself never to cross this woman.

 

 **xiii.**  

Esteban is a reasonable man. At least, that's what he tells them the next day, in a mandatory staff conference in the board room.

"I do not think there is any need for any," he pauses, like he's rolling the word around in his mouth, savouring it, "terminal actions."

Eugene can actually hear everyone in the room let go of the breath they've been holding in unison. Jack, who has been clutching Eugene's hand under the table like he's about to give birth, relaxes some.

"However," Esteban starts, and Eugene has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from hissing when Jack clamps down on his fingers again. "The reputation of the station must be protected. Mr. Holden, what event was it your," there is a significant pause, "friend proposed we put on?" 

"The Lem's House kiddie carnival and fun day," Jack says, miserably, slouching down in his chair. Eugene rubs a soothing thumb across the back of his hand without thinking, and looks away quickly when Jack sneaks a glance in his direction.

"Then it pleases me to appoint you head of our station's fun day organization committee," and damn it if the bastard doesn't sound like he's enjoying this. The little hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth makes Eugene's blood go a few degrees colder. "I'll leave it up to you to recruit the rest of the group. When is the event taking place?"

Jack mumbles something even he doesn't catch.

"What was that? I am sorry, I could not hear you."

"Lem said it was happening next weekend," Phil pipes up. 

This time, Esteban's smile is broad and no less terrible. "I suppose you had better get to work, then."

In the interest of friendship, Eugene pretends not to hear Jack whimper.

 

 **xiv.**  

"Is that new?" Eugene asks, pointing to the figure on the inside of Zoe's left bicep.

"Fairly," she extends her arm, twisting it until the pinup girl's saucy gaze is turned his way.

He squints. And maybe it's just the heat getting to him but something seems off. "Is her face supposed to be grey like that?"

"She's a zombie," Zoe says, "she how she's got that bite out of her leg there?"

"Now that you mention it, yeah. Is that why her dress is torn?"

"Guys," Sam's voice breaks in, "I think he's going for—"

But he's interrupted as well by what Eugene can only think to describe as a bellow from the balance beam. He looks up and Phil's got his arms in the air, foam bat raised above his guilt-inducing inflatable hair and a wild look on his face. God help them all, the guy's gone full on _Braveheart_.

"They can take our weekend, but they can never take our freedom," Eugene mutters under his breath.

Zoe snickers. "Keep working on the accent."

Jack's just standing still, staring at him like — well, like Phil's gone mental, which doesn't seem like a stretch just now. His arms are hanging loose at his sides, and he's entirely unprotected when Phil throws the bat away, drops his head, and charges at him with a run.

The two inflatable sumo bellies connect, bounce off each other and connect again. Now it's Jack's turn to windmill his arms, grabbing at the air as he falls straight off the back of the beam. For a moment, no one breathes. And then Phil, standing at the very edge of the beam, wobbles and sways and goes down straight on top of him.

Sam, Eugene and Zoe break into applause almost in unison.

"Oh come on," Jack yells, only partly legible with Phil still on top of him, suit smushed against his face. "That doesn't count."

"What do you say, Five?" Sam says, turning to the intern. "Yay or nay?"

Five goes pink, but raises a hand, thumb slowly turning in an upright direction. Eugene lets out a whoop.

"The Russian judge says no points for dismount, but it's a win."

Jack groans, and knees Phil in the side as he's shoving him off.

 

 **xv.**  

He is 11 years old, nearly 12. It's not the first warm day of spring, but it must be close — the warmth and sunshine are still too new and exciting, and the roads leading from his parents' house to school are still dusty with winter gravel that crunches under his bike tires.

If he thinks about it hard enough, which he doesn't so much these days, he can remember the breeze — smelling mostly of car exhaust but just faintly of the ocean — the click of shifting gears, the hiss of rubber against the pavement.

No matter how hard he tries, he never can remember the car.

He's never expended near as much effort trying to remember what comes after that.

 

 **xvi.**  

Unlike Jack, Eugene prefers to wait until the temperature actually edges above 12 degrees to wear shorts to work.

Unfortunately, England is going through one of its late, as opposed to the usual slightly tardy, springs. They've been working together nearly eight months before the weather app on his phone finally registers a 17 degree day with a chance of showers lower than 50 per cent. Still iffy, but he's been wearing the same pair of jeans to work for just a few too many days in a row to avoid going to the laundromat and at least the shorts are clean.

It's his day to do the prep time hot beverage run (coffee for him, tea with milk and three sugars for Jack, who is disgusting), so by the time he gets in Jack has his face buried in a tabloid and receives his drink with a grunt of thanks and barely a glance up.

Eugene's busy scanning actual, legitimate news sources — well, The New Times, really, but they've got a feature on that creepy cruise ship that ran aground on the coast last week, the Aurora or something like that, and the pictures of the sewage leaks in the passenger cabins are truly disgusting — when he feels eyes on him.

He looks up, and Jack raises his eyebrows and rakes his eyes down. "That's new." 

"Not really." He glances down, to where the prosthetic disappears above the hem of his shorts. The flesh toned plastic is almost darker than the skin on his real calf. This country's been good to him in a lot of ways, but his tan? Not so much.

"So, is this like a test or something?" Jack asks, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and wary.

"Maybe," he feels a smile tugging at his lips.

"In that case," he picks up his newspaper again, making a show of shaking it out and turning the page and — "Wait. Hold on. So when I stepped on your foot at the Christmas party and you made such a fuss..."

Busted, and Eugene can't keep the grin off his face.

"You bastard," Jack says, paper forgotten.

"In my defence, I was objecting to your dance moves more than the pain," Eugene says.

Jack makes a very rude gesture that would likely horrify a good portion of their listeners (and delight an equal number of them. It's a mixed crowd.) "Didn't seem like it bothered you so much when—"

Right, that's why they don't talk about the Christmas party.

"Should we check the answering machine?" Eugene says, too quickly. "There might be some call-ins we can use."

It might be his imagination, but when he looks over as he's punching in their station voice mail code the expression on Jack's face seems sort of... wistful?

Eugene elects not to bring that up ever again either.

  

**xvii.**

Just like that, the battle gains some momentum.

Oh, it's still not impressive, by any means. But, as Phil and Jack poke at each other with their bats, huffing and panting in their suits, Eugene finds he can't look away.

"He's open on his left side," Sam shouts. "Come on, go for it. No, no. Other left!" 

"Kill him, Phil," Zoe calls, hands cupped around her mouth. Eugene's pretty sure she's being ironic, but he can't quite say for certain.

On the balance beam, Phil raises the bat high above his head, readying for the killing blow.

Which gives Jack all the time and opportunity he needs to whack him soundly in the chest, tipping him off the beam for a final time.

Of the assembled crowd, Eugene is the only one to applaud. Sam sighs and tears open the crisps. Zoe is booing softly. And Jack is —

"Oh, not so high and mighty when you've got to fight clean, are you?" His victory dance seems to consist of hopping from one foot to the other and back again and pumping his arms like he's jogging. Anyone else, and Eugene would blame it on the sumo suit, but no. He's seen Jack dance like this in his usual clothing too.

Phil glares, shoving the headpiece of his suit back, empty hair hanging down the back of his neck. Eugene hopes there aren't any children watching, because it's easily one of the creepiest things he's ever seen — and he's seen Mr. Sosa smile. "Whatever." 

"What's that?" Jack cups a hand over the place where his ear must be inside the suit, "I thought I heard something. The warbling call of a sore loser, perhaps?"

"Stop gloating and come here, you tit," Eugene calls. "We can interview you for the next update for the station."

"Sorry mate," Jack gives Phil a toothy and unnerving smile. "Love to stay and chat but the people long to bask in my winning presence."

Eugene rolls his eyes so hard he nearly gives himself vertigo. 

Jack bounces on his toes as Eugene dials into the station. Up close his face isn't so wet as before, but his skin is still blotchy red under his freckles. "Did you put on sunscreen?"

"Yes, mum," Jack says, and swipes the back of his hand across his forehead. "God, this suit is like a furnace. Can we make this quick? And then sneak off to like, a basement or the freezer case at the nearest grocery?"

"Drink some water or something first." Four rings and still no one's picked up? What's the weekend DJ even doing?

"WNYZ, this is Amber."

"Amber, hey, you ready for another exciting update?"

She laughs. "Any breaking news from the fun fair?"

"I can report that our very own Jack Holden has bested Phil of Radio New Tomorrow in a feat of strength, balance and endur—"

Behind him, there is a thump.

"Crap," Sam says, too loud.

"Someone get a doctor."

"Five, don't just stand there. _Run_."

"Uh, Amber?" Eugene says. "I'll call you back."

 

 **xviii.**  

He's not even drunk, is the worst of it. Eugene's made it a point not to drink at work functions since an unfortunate incident at a going away party back in his early days of commercial radio in Canada. One half glass of mediocre table wine and he's cut off for the night. He'd allow himself the full glass but seriously, the merlot isn't even worth it.

For their holiday festivities FAB Network has rented the WNYZ staff a moderately nice banquet room at a moderately nice hotel, and provides a meal of similar quality. More importantly, though, they put the Christmas party on a night that somehow conflicts with the schedule of every senior network manager who might otherwise consider stopping by for a friendly drink with the peons.

With no adult supervision to worry about, the party actually turns out kind of fun. Zoe and — confusingly enough — Ephraim, from the night shift, have some killer dance moves between them. Jack's roommate Simon, who's invited himself along, gets into some sort of drinking contest with Phil involving increasingly dubious mixed shooters and Hollywood trivia that someone really ought to be filming.

Jack is maybe a little drunk. There's a flush in his cheeks, anyway, and when they end up on the dance floor together he grabs for Eugene's hand, pulling him close and spinning him away in a bad approximation of the tango that leaves them both laughing and breathless. Attempts to explain the actual tango are wildly unsuccessful, and end with an ill-conceived attempt at dipping that nearly flattens Ephraim's poor co-host, Father Michael. The priest (of what, exactly, Eugene is not totally certain, now that he thinks about it) already looks uncomfortable enough trying to move to forgettable 90s hits. He doesn't deserve to be crushed, kicked or stepped on as well.

"You need to be stopped," Eugene drags Jack off the dance floor by the arm, laughing and valiantly ignoring all attempts to reengage him by doing— "Is that supposed to be a chicken impersonation?"

"You just can't handle my killer moves," Jack says, flapping their joined hands.

"Yeah, I'm worried you're literally going to kill someone with them." There are still pitchers of water on some of the tables that have been shoved against the wall to make way for the dance floor, and he makes a beeline towards them. "How do you not get thrown out of every rave you go to?"

"People like it when you bump them if the vibe is right," Jack says, sort of mock sullen.

"Vibe, sure. That's what it is."

"Rude," he huffs and tugs at Eugene's arm again, pulling him away from the nice, safe hub of table and chairs. "You're buying me a drink. Penalty drink, that's what it is."

The bar — cash, alas — is housed in a small room connected to several ballrooms of differing size and impressiveness, at least one of which seems to be taken up entirely by severe military types. He's got one foot through the connecting door, Jack a half-step behind him, when approximately half the dance floor lets out a cheer. Or more of a shout. A shout that sounds like a word. A short, friendly, familiar little word an awful lot like

"Kiss!"

"Well fuck me," Jack says softly behind him.

Eugene looks up.

The mistletoe is clearly a late addition to the hotel's own decor, which consists mainly of plastic pine boughs and velvet ribbons. For one thing, it's actually real. For another, it's tacked to the door frame with a piece of sellotape.

He glances back, and now it's not just half the dance floor. Now every person in the room, including the DJ and a member of the catering staff who's slipped in to clean up the last of the dessert table, is watching them expectantly.

"Gotta give the people what they want, right?" Jack says, all bravado and waggling eyebrows.

"I guess." He puts a hand on Jack's shoulder, and it's almost terrifying, how easily he comes, letting himself be pulled flush against Eugene's chest and tipping his head up, eyes fluttering closed and lips half parted.

Eugene screws his own eyes shut and presses their mouths together. Better to do this quick. There is no way that any option that involves lingering ends well for him. Get in, get out, that's the plan. Except Jack's fingers are cupping the back of his head, threading into his hair, and Jack's mouth is open against his own and when Eugene digs his fingers into his shoulder in surprise, Jack's soft noise of need goes straight to his—

He jerks back. Someone on the dance floor applauds.

Jack wets his lips and sucks in a breath.

"I'm going to the washroom," Eugene announces, nearly shouts, to the group at large, and with an abrupt about-face leaves him standing in the doorway alone.

He gives himself five minutes to catch his breath and splash water on his face before doing what any reasonable man would do in the situation: tell Sam he's come down with food poisoning and leg it for home.

 

 **xix.**  

The doctor Five brings back is surprisingly cheerful about having her Saturday afternoon in the park interrupted. Her girlfriend seems less so, at least based on the exasperated-yet-fond glances she keeps throwing at Maxine's back. Eugene feels like they ought to commiserate, but he's a bit busy cradling Jack's head in his lap to do more than smile-grimace and offer his own name by way of greeting when she introduces herself as "Dr. Cohen," in clipped tones.

With the sumo suit peeled away, it's not that difficult to guess what's taken Jack down where Phil could not. His shirt is soaked through with sweat, practically translucent in spots. Eugene wants to smack him, once he's cleared for walking again.

"It's probably dehydration," Maxine confirms. "Maybe heat stroke. Do you have a car? They should check him out at the hospital."

"I'm fine now," Jack tries to sit up, but doesn't manage it at all. "I just want to go home and pass out in a vat of beer."

"Hospital," Maxine says again. "And let your boyfriend drive."

"Co-worker, actually," Eugene says, though no one appears to care or even be listening.

"Keep the air conditioning on if you have it. Or roll the windows down if you don't." Maxine says to him. "He seems hardy, so he should be fine. But they may want to give him fluids and keep him for a few hours."

Eugene makes Lem help him walk-slash-drag Jack back to the WNYZ van, one of his arms slung over each of their shoulders. It seems only fair.

 

**xx.**

Jack texts him for a pickup just around the time he and Phil and Zoe are breaking down the last of the Lem's House kiddie carnival and fun day by themselves, Sam and Five having disappeared hours ago for reasons unspecified. Lem himself has also fucked off, though not without reminding Eugene that that he's owed 50 quid for the day's acting work.

Jack looks better than he's expecting. A little tired around the eyes, mostly, and sunburnt across the bridge of his nose. There's a bandage in the crook of his elbow, where they'd stuck the IV, and the hospital staff makes him use a wheelchair until he's at the station van again, but otherwise there doesn't seem to be much lasting harm done.

They drive in relative silence, save for Jack tapping his fingers along the armrest to the beat on the radio and the usual stop-start buzz of traffic. Eugene's pretty sure he ought to yell at him — for making him worry, for not drinking enough fluids, for leaving everyone whose fault this wasn't alone to deal with the charity event. But right now he's just happy that at some point in the near future he might get a cold shower and a nap. It's been the longest of days.

"Hey," Jack finally asks, as they're turning the corner towards his flat. "How much did we raise?"

Eugene's bone weary, but he still has to smile. "Guess."

"Oh god, that bad?"

"Six," he pauses just to watch Jack wince, "thousand seven hundred and two pounds."

"You're kidding."

"Congratulations on starting the most successful poorly conceived fake charity of our times," Eugene says. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Gene," Jack says in a small voice. "Am I actually going to have to start a home for orphaned children whose parents were eaten?"

"I have heard it's a bigger issue than you think. Down south."

Jack waits until he's finished parking the van to punch him in the arm.

 

 **xxi.**  

It's stupid, but he walks Jack to the front door nonetheless. Wouldn't look good to have his co-host passing out in his front entryway because Eugene was too lazy to make sure he got settled okay.

"Call me if you need anything," he says once they're hovering, awkward, just inside the front door. There aren't any windows here, and the apartment feels cool and dark and slightly too intimate.

"I've got it from here, I think," Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, hesitates, takes them back out again. "Um, thanks for not letting me die from sun exposure."

"It wasn't just me." He should go. Because he's tired and he could use a sandwich, and not because there's something in the tone of Jack's voice, in his body language, that makes Eugene think all the kinds of thoughts he's spent months training himself out of. "And what would we do without you? You're Jack freaking Holden."

"That I am," Jack's smirk lasts barely a beat before it's replaced with this look of consideration that makes Eugene feel like he's being measured with uncertain results. "Hey, ah, you can blame this on the heat if you want but, I just —"

He moves either painstakingly slow or so fast Eugene nearly misses it. But either way Jack's hands are on his face, tilting his chin down. Jack's pushing up onto the balls of his feet, which he doesn't even need to do because he's not that much shorter. Jack's fitting their mouths together, so the kiss is open and wet and shockingly gentle nonetheless.

Eugene cannot for the life of him remember how breathing works.

There are any number of smart and only marginally unkind ways to deal with this. His fingers curl around Jack's biceps, worn cotton and sun-warmed skin against his. He feels Jack brace himself for a shove away.

Eugene hauls him closer, angling his head, and suddenly they've gone from gentle to something else entirely. Something that makes Jack let out a noise that's just left of a hiccough, makes him press himself all along Eugene's front, like the Christmas party only better — the only time in the world they might be better without the audience.

Someone, one of them, pulls back to breathe and Jack's eyes are bright like he's never seen them, not even when he put in the order for the goat. There's a beat of stillness, of silence, and they're kissing again. And again, after that, and the next time too.

Somewhere in there his back hits the wall of the entryway, and Jack's shirt takes an unescorted trip into the next room and Eugene finds the best way to making him shiver, involving a brush of his fingers low on his ribcage and a kiss laid just behind his ear. He's enjoying the trick so much he doesn't noticeat at first when Jack's knees start going. Don't notice at all, actually, until Jack's clinging on to him for balance, head dropped forward against his shoulder.

"Sorry, might've pushed myself a little too far there," he's nosing at Eugene's collarbone even as he's saying it, tongue darting out against his skin. "Just give me a second."

"Go sit down, idiot." He takes hold of Jack's arms again, steers him away from the hall and in the direction of the flat's sitting area. It feels a bit like dancing — except no one's getting trod on, so it can't possible be. Not with Jack involved. "One hospital visit per day, okay?"

"Fine, fine," Jack lets himself be lowered onto the couch, but doesn't remove his arms from around Eugene's neck. "You're taking this better than I thought, you know."

Eugene doesn't answer immediately, in that he's busy prying himself loose so he can sit down on the sofa as well, instead of hovering, knees bent and ass sticking out in front of it. Jack watches him with his head tilted back against the cushions, face turned up like he's waiting to be kissed. Which is as good an invitation as any, right?

"I just thought you'd object more," Jack says again, much later again, looking up from low on Eugene's stomach — though not yet quite low enough, thanks.

"Object to what?" Eugene asks, and exercises what little self restraint he has left by not pushing Jack's head down.

"This?" He makes a vague gesture at the couch, the clothing crumpled on the floor, the mark he's working into the skin of Eugene's hip. "You did fake a case of the heaves the last time I kissed you."

"Well, we work together," Eugene points out. "That seemed like a deal breaker."

"And now?" Jack's expression goes worried. "Please don't tell me you quit when I was at the hospital. I can't do that show by myself any more. I — I'd get lonely."

"What? No." He shouldn't enjoy the look of relief that flits across Jack's features quite this much. "I just... don't care as much, I don't think."

"Spoken like a true romantic," Jack sighs, and beams at him anyway.

"I cradled your unconscious body," Eugene points out. "Isn't that enough for one day?"

"I guess that bit was pretty good."

"Only pretty good?"

"Hey, I was unconscious, what do I know? Next time, how about waiting until I'm awake?"

Eugene thinks about it a minute. "You're awake now."

Jack grins, and pounces on him.

 

 **xxii.**  

They give the fun fair money to some local-but-discreet firefighters, who really do help out at a children's orphanage in the south. South America, that is.

Eugene does not let Jack ask any of them about cannibalism.

**Author's Note:**

> As per request, credit for "Two Poofs In a Sound Proof Booth" goes to actual Jack Holden and Eugene Woods, Rhys Jennings and Nathan Nolan.
> 
>  ...
> 
> [No, really.](https://twitter.com/nathanljnolan/status/279608584755630080)


End file.
